


Through the Gate of Horn

by guns_and_poses



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dreams, Dreams vs. Reality, Fluff and Angst, Gen, M/M, Possibly Pre-Slash, Reunions, Shippy Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-27
Updated: 2013-06-27
Packaged: 2017-12-16 07:54:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/859735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/guns_and_poses/pseuds/guns_and_poses
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for <a href="http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/21697.html?thread=125842625#t125842625">this</a> prompt: An exhausted, worn out Sherlock returns from his Hiatus by breaking into John's new apartment in the dead of night and crawling into bed with him. So John wakes up to Sherlock slumbering in the bed with him the next morning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Through the Gate of Horn

_There’s a siren in the distance._  
  
 _He’s being dragged along in Sherlock’s wake, the handcuffs an awkward but tangible link between them._  
  
 _“Take my hand.”_  
  
 _He does, the new connection strange but absolute._  
  
 _The siren crescendos. Blue lights strobe._  
  
 _They enter an alley which is dark and growing narrower with every step. There’s the clang of a rubbish bin as John slams into it on the way past, trying to keep up. Sherlock’s faster, always has been, and he’s up and over and beyond the high barrier of a metal gate before John can keep him on his side. For a sickening stretch of too-long seconds the once firm tether of the handcuffs becomes disconcertingly malleable, thin and far too fragile._  
  
 _John’s breath stops; Sherlock’s slipping away._  
  
 _“Sherlock, wait!”_  
  
 _He grabs for Sherlock’s coat. There’s an ease of pressure in John’s chest as he just manages to catch the rough weave of wool in his grasp and pull Sherlock closer. John’s panting from running, and he breathes in the scent of expensive cologne overlaid with the musk of sweat._  
  
 _“We’re going. To need. To coordina–”_  
  
 _John’s breath leaves him again in a quiet gasp. Blood is seeping slowly across the lapel of Sherlock’s coat, the fabric suddenly slick underneath John’s fingers. Sherlock seems eerily unfazed, staring back at John expectantly. John’s once reassuring hold on Sherlock begins to falter, his fingertips sliding on blood-soaked fibers. His grip slips, catches again, slips once more._  
  
 _“Go to your right,” Sherlock commands._  
  
 _John desperately tries to obey, but time and space turn malevolent, becoming a mire through which he must trudge. He struggles to resist them as he attempts to climb up, working against the distorted gravity pushing him down. His limbs turn leaden and ineffective, slow and numb. He pulls with weak hands and pushes with clumsy feet as panic curls up tighter and tighter and tighter inside him._  
  
  
There’s a siren in the distance.  
  
  
 _With all of the strength he can summon he finally scrambles over the gate and drops to the welcoming ground. When he lands the crippling heaviness dissipates, brushed off his shoulders in an instant. Sherlock is once again within his easy reach, whole and alive, the terrible blood cleansed from his coat._  
  
 _Relief._  
  
 _Elation._  
  
 _John feels nimble and light, like he could float away and carry Sherlock with him. He doesn’t dare allow himself to take hold of Sherlock’s hand again (now people will definitely talk), but his fingers find the cuff of Sherlock’s coat sleeve and hold on tight._  
  
 _And then they’re off again, together._  
  
 _Light, street lamps, bright beyond the darkness of the alleyway._  
  
 _There’s a siren..._  
  
  
...passing by on the street below, muffled by his bedroom window. The wail grows quieter until it fades away completely, eclipsed by the lazy ping and patter of retreating rain against the glass.  
  
  
 _...his fingers find the cuff of Sherlock’s coat sleeve and hold on tight._  
  
 _And then they’re off again, together._  
  
 _Light..._  
  
  
...morning light, bright beyond his closed eyelids.  
  
  
 _...his fingers find the cuff of Sherlock’s coat sleeve and hold on tight._  
  
 _And then..._  
  
  
...there’s the clang of his noisy neighbor dumping bottles into the bins outside.  
  
  
John’s eyelids flutter and then shut once more as he surfaces from slumber. He inhales deeply; a long, sleepy draw of breath.  
  
  
Cigarettes.  
  
  
A faded trace of expensive cologne overlaid with the musk of sweat.  
  
  
An unexpected weight settled heavily next to him in his bed.  
  
  
And under his fingertips — the rough weave of wool, damp with raindrops.  
  
  
He opens his eyes.  
  


 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: The title comes from Homer’s _The Odyssey_ : Deceitful dreams come through a gate made of ivory, while true ones pass through a gate made of horn. Penelope had doubts that her dream of Odysseus’ safe return would come true.


End file.
